I’m only used to being loved halfway.
I don’t remember what it feels like to be poured in, to the brim,
spilling over because my heart cannot hold all that’s been given.
I’m only used to being touched as an object, not as their one and only.
Men have used sex as a form of entitlement,
which showed me they thought I was worth penetrating,
but not worth protecting.
They brought me pleasure, but couldn’t bring me peace.
written March 24, 2018.
I am probably more tired now,
than I have ever been.
It doesn’t consume me,
but it’s a constant reminder
that a woman like me
should never feel this way.
I’ve resigned from writing about you a million times over,
yet here I am again.
Instead of fighting the urge to spill the contents of my heart
onto pieces of paper,
I’ve continued to let them pour.
Still, I simply wish that my inclination to do so
fades away –
just like your love for me.
written May 11, 2019.
Let this be the last time that I look at you,
and the last time that my fingertips
trace the places
that yours used to roam.
I am grateful for every inch of our journey.
You were there for me through some of my most daunting moments.
You listened as I detailed the darkest parts of my pain,
and made sure that I would not let
its abyss swallow me whole.
You were the source of many smiles,
and the cause of many bloated bellies
from being wined and dined
all of those late nights in your home.
I’ll miss the laughter, and the singing,
and the dancing, and the cuddling.
I’ll miss the sweet splendor of how you
would sex me right to sleep,
just for me to wake up to the most delicate forehead kisses.
You were warmth, and humor, and savant, and style.
You were contradictory, and confusing, and hurtful, and proud.
You were so many things,
which is why I felt so many things,
and learned to be kinder to myself
as I unraveled your grip around my heart.
You complicated my most magnificent love,
and I’ve finally forgiven you for it.
My resentment has dissolved,
and the desire to see and speak to you
has finally gone away.
I am now okay
with not having you in my life anymore.
And although our time has come to an end,
my love for you has not.
Thank you, for everything.
Forever, your babygirl.
written January 1, 2019.
It’s easier this way.
I’ll keep you in the dark for as long as I can,
but it will be your fault when I finally pull the trigger.
I could talk to you about things,
but I would just be reiterating what you already know.
I want to do everything but say goodbye,
but “everything” always comes back to bite me in the end.
We are take it or leave it.
We are all or nothing.
Always were.
Always will be.
written July 6, 2018.
You’re talking to me.
At least your voice in the background makes it seem that way.
You’re probably making valid points about perspective,
attempting to help me grieve while my period eats away at my emotions,
or trying to make me feel better about being broke “because it’s temporary.”
You never fail to mention that the pockets of the wealthiest people
cannot stop their own crises from taking place.
Maybe you should stop.
Maybe you should let me be;
because what you’re telling me,
I already know,
and it will only worsen my mood.
I’m sorry that you’re spending your 60th birthday
misty-eyed,
having yet another conversation with your daughter
about how to overcome her woes.
You tell me a couple of scriptures I can’t adequately recall
before going back to your book.
Moments later I’ve made myself more aware,
only because the speech doesn’t seem like it’ll reconvene.
Part of me is relieved that you’re focused on news updates,
and it doesn’t take long before your routine complaints about Trump begin.
This is it:
Just us.
It usually is.
Me, suctioned into my warped little world, consumed by my hunger for success.
You, hurting beyond any type of explanation or comprehension,
carrying on as if today isn’t especially yours.
I’m sorry.
written September 15, 2016.
It’s like a neglected wound.
Most of the time I forget that it’s there,
but when I remember,
it’s like I got cut all over again.
To feel it is to be reminded that I was left:
as if I never mattered,
as if I don’t exist.
To feel it is to know that love will never be enough,
and that words dissolve right after they’re spoken.
So if you love me like you say you do,
show it by staying.
And if you ever leave,
be sure to shut the door.
written July 7, 2017.
I am so tired of men leaving my life
for the same reason that they entered.
Do not come to the jungle
if you can’t handle the wild.
written June 13, 2017.
I used to like the pain,
now I want anything to numb it.
These days have passed by so quickly,
yet they seem to last so long.
I haven’t talked to you in quite some time now.
Finality has a weird kind of ring to it.
I can’t forget your smile,
but his has got me hooked.
No need for sorry - I’ve forgiven you already.
You’re out of sight, but remain at the edges of my mind.
You rest in regret, while I rest in relief.
I’ll be sure to send my love through silence.
written June 7, 2017.
Society is funny
because you’re cursed when you have sex
and cursed when you don’t
and there is no numbered layer of clothing
that can stop the shaming.
written June 2, 2017.
I am transformed on a daily basis.
Painted, poked, prodded and primped.
My entire being is a clean slate
that is constantly reinvented for your viewing.
An array of emotions are conveyed on camera,
but are they mine or my public persona’s?
Sometimes I’m unsure myself.
I am an actress, a muse, a maniac of sorts.
Far from perfect, yet the ideology is what drives the vision.
When I step in front of the lens,
am I stepping into freedom or entrapment?
Is it me who’s in control,
or those that move me from “start” to “finish?”
No one on this Earth is as isolated as they may think.
There is always someone or something causing you
to think the way you think,
and to act the way you act.
Are we artists,
or are we puppets?
Maybe it’s a mixture of both.
A touch can turn into a transfer of toxins.
Be mindful of whose hands are molding you.
written May 25, 2017.
The biggest mistake I made
was
handing him my cup
and
expecting him to fill it up
when
it was my job to pour.
written April 25, 2017.
You told me not to fall for you.
You told me that I deserve better.
You told me that you love me
and that you want what is best for me.
It had been made clear that what was best,
wasn’t you.
Yet, you’re here,
with your tie undone and your eyes glossed over,
wondering if the man who’s waiting for me at the bar is mine.
You ran in your expensive suit and designer shoes
to tell me that you hope it isn’t true:
that I could have possibly moved on.
You’re standing in front of me,
like a puppy with its tail in between its legs.
I’ve never seen you look so weary.
I’ve never seen you look so lost.
“I have a boyfriend now,” I say.
And before I can continue, your lips are trembling and tears are falling.
I’ve never seen you cry;
I never thought you could.
I’m in awe.
It took years for us to end and even longer for me to recover.
My heart called out your name countless times, yet you refused to listen.
You waited until the man of my dreams took your place,
before you even considered trying to get it back.
So, why are you hurting?
You willingly made room for someone else to give me the world,
the moment you decided we would never have one.
written March 15, 2017.
Sometimes, he would hurt me.
Sometimes, I would like it.
Most times, I didn’t.
And when he would hold me,
it was because he wanted me held captive,
not because he cared.
When I cry, my tears are shed for the younger me,
who had hands in between her legs that didn’t belong there,
who was forced to trade in her childhood for maturation,
and became an adult long before she turned 18.
I don’t want you to wipe my slate clean,
in case you were wondering.
You can’t.
But I was hoping that I could start a new one with you.
I could give you the love that you’ve been craving,
and you could render the kind that I’ve never received.
Can you do that?
Can you hold all of my broken pieces,
careful not to mix them with your own?
Can you cradle my heart without cutting your hands?
Can you carry me when my feet are dragging so heavily,
that they begin to slow yours down too?
We understand each other in ways that our formers never could;
we adore the parts of ourselves that they didn’t want.
Now, we’re presented an opportunity to become the type of people
that we never had.
So, what do you say?
Would you like to meet halfway?
We deserve a “forever” too.
I can’t make you whole,
but I’ll vow to make you better.
Just promise that by the time our ending arrives,
you will have done the same for me.
written March 10, 2017.
I lay beside your memory at night,
which is why it’s so hard for me to get up in the morning.
I think of all the times I slept in your bed,
and wonder if you ever think of me when no one is there to hog the covers.
God, I hate this part the most.
You’re everywhere, in everything.
I don’t want to press “pause”
because the pain just needs to stop altogether.
I’m disgusted that our ending
has me questioning if what we had was even real.
Were our feelings truly the same,
or did you love me like those other guys that call themselves men?
You’re not worried about me;
you can’t be.
You’re unscathed, and that’s okay.
It is through this tragedy,
that I am able to birth the beautifully crafted story
of how you destroyed me from the inside out,
and stomped my soul into smithereens.
written February 3, 2017.
You ask me how I did it:
how I made an extremely difficult process look so easy.
You don’t know that it was excruciating from the start,
and that I’m nowhere near finished.
I had to remove the one person I wanted for the rest of my life,
from my life.
I had to detach myself from a part of my soul.
It started with one day, that turned into one week,
which turned into one month,
and before I knew it, I reached half of a year.
I haven’t coped,
I’ve just kept myself busy.
But those moments when I’m alone,
all of the memories rush to my head at once.
I want to tell him that my hands are sore from working such a long shift,
and that I’m coming over for chips and salsa.
I want to tell him all the good news about my day,
and how I’m evolving into the woman we both want me to become.
I may look like I’m okay,
distancing myself from the one I love.
But the truth is, in this sixth month,
I still want him,
just as much as I did on the day I decided to let him go.
written February 2, 2017.
A woman once asked me:
Where did you find him,
and how did you keep him?
My reply was:
We weren’t looking for anything,
but once he met me, he never wanted to leave.
written January 28, 2017.
Sometimes,
I want to force my feet onto the floor
so that I can make my way out of bed.
I envision myself heading to the bathroom
so that I can brush my teeth,
shower, and start my day.
But most times,
I don’t move.
If I do, it might be to eat,
or to get some more tissues.
It’s not always the worst thing,
to lay here.
My memory works well,
and because of that,
I can write to relieve the thoughts
that overtake me.
That way, when I think of us kissing,
I ache a little less.
I wrap my arms around myself and
get used to not having yours.
Today,
I’m going to throw out my graduation and birthday cards;
even the handwritten card I never gave to you.
They’re all just reminders that I don’t need.
As I mentioned before, I have enough.
Today,
I’m not mad at myself for feeling the way that I do.
There is no shame, or guilt, or denial.
I’m allowing this recovery to take its course.
I love you with all of me,
so all of me must heal.
written January 24, 2017.
I can barely open my eyes.
Do I even want to?
Regret has spilled onto the sheets,
and sorrow has seeped into my pillow.
When you left this morning,
I hope you took all of my feelings with you,
but I’m sure that you dismissed them,
because you do the same to yours.
I don’t know how we came to this point,
where we keep giving and giving, just to have nothing at all.
Maybe we like watering what died a long time ago.
Maybe it’s because we hate the sound of goodbye.
written January 16, 2017.
I said that the last time would be the last time
on countless occasions.
I keep giving and you keep taking,
because you’ll never say no.
You know what I’m worth,
and you know what you’d be missing,
should I truly follow through with leaving you behind.
But you don’t care.
So we play this little game
where I leave the ball in your court,
knowing that it’s really in mine,
as we wait for the clock to run out.
And when it does,
don’t go wondering what happened.
There will be no space or opportunity
to make up for all we could’ve had.
The love is there,
but our intentions are completely different.
You play for ego,
and I play for keeps.
written December 12, 2016.
There was a time when I didn’t want anyone’s arms
around me but my own.
The thought of a man embracing me one moment
just to leave me in the long run, caused me to become reclusive.
Then came you.
When you touched me,
you told a story.
Your hands meeting my skin
served as the segue into my soul.
Every crease, dip and curve
were points for marking.
You kissed my scars and traced my stretch marks.
You knew that my temple was my territory,
but you never made me feel like an object
for wanting to see what was inside.
Looking back,
I’m not resentful.
Tearful, but not resentful.
I miss those moments,
when a tickle turned into love making,
and how you’d hold me through the night.
I’m not mad at you,
because for the first time in my life,
it wasn’t just sex.
You felt me beyond the physical.
You wanted more than just a release.
You poured into me,
and exchanged your love for mine.
written November 8, 2016.